


Gently Gift it to Me

by mynameisnotmac



Series: Hurtling through Time (Darling Please be Mine) [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Absolute fluff, Ciri and her two dads, Fluff, M/M, just a little underside of angst, just the fluffiest cloud fic, paternal jaskier, the tiniest amount
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotmac/pseuds/mynameisnotmac
Summary: A pause for lunch and mending. I am here to provide all the Ciri and her two dads' content.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Hurtling through Time (Darling Please be Mine) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684915
Comments: 17
Kudos: 275





	Gently Gift it to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back! Thank you so much for all the love on the stories in this series so far! I've loved each and every comment💖Here's the latest installment! It's just some nice fluffy filler that's been kicking around in my head before we ramp it up in the next fic so stay tuned!

They stop for lunch in the forest beneath the foothills of the mountain pass. There’s a frost on the ground, but the sun is bright and merry as it peaks through the trees. Geralt sits sharpening his swords, Jaskier pressed against his back between him and the fire they cooked their rabbit on. Normally Geralt wouldn’t want to stop for this long, but the ease of the afternoon ripples though him with a contented sigh. He’s going soft in his old age.

Ciri sits at Jaskier’s elbow, watching him mend a hole in her cloak and chatting aimlessly. Ever since they left Rinde, Geralt can’t help but notice how she sticks a little closer to the bard. “Will you sew flowers over this tear?”

Geralt can feel Jaskier smile even if he can’t see him, every emotion with Jaskier is full-bodied. “If you’d like me too, although you’ll have to grab my bag from behind us,” he says, head tipping back against Geralt, indicating the direction. Ciri hops up and grabs Jaskiers pack, giving Geralt an excited grin as she does. He gives her an easy nod and a slight curl of the corner of his lip, infected by her happiness. 

Taking back her seat at Jaskier’s side, she starts rifling through the little box where he keeps his sewing supplies looking at the different colours of thread. Ciri’s cloak is littered with tiny daisies and other delicate florals Jaskier has embroidered on in past patch jobs. “Bluebells today please,” she says, pressing an indigo skein into his hand.

Jaskier’s laugh is warm as summer, seeping in through Geralt’s back into his chest. “I’ll do my best, little highness.” He promises, leaning forward a little to thread the needle. Geralt follows the warmth, letting the slightest amount of his weight rest on Jaskier. He lets out a hum, low and more felt than heard, letting the other corner of his lip raise as Jaskier pushes back up against him. 

For awhile the only sound to be heard is Jaskier and the birds, both humming as they work. Their elbows brush against each other almost rhythmically as the bard sews and the witcher polishes his blade. Ciri watches, almost entranced, as Jaskier stitches a new bunch of flowers over the torn fabric. They’re not perfect, a tailor might even call them sloppy, but they’re pretty and bright and the fact that Jaskier took the time to put them there is more endearing than Geralt is willing to admit. “Where did you learn to do this?” Ciri asks, finally breaking the peace.

“Scullery maids,” Jaskier replies, tying a knot to hold the stitches secure. “I used to sneak away from my lessons as a boy to join them for their afternoon mending.”

Ciri looks at him, confused. “Why on earth would you want to watch the servants sew?”

“To hear all the best stories of course! No one susses out gossip half as well. If you want to find out what’s going on in a house, join the sewing circle of the scullery maids.” He threads the needle with green this time, for the stems. “But I didn’t just watch - nothing comes for free. They taught me how to sew and in exchange for stories I’d help with the mending. They taught me how to do all sorts of things; mending, washings, how to tell the sex of a pregnant woman’s baby with nothing but an apple peel, how to get rid of the ghosts in your sock drawers, when I got older they even taught me how to pleasure their -” His list is interrupted by a low  _ Jaskier….  _ at his back, “- tastebuds Geralt. They taught me how to cook, keep that head of yours out of the gutter, you’ll get muck in your hair.” Jaskier lightly rams his elbow into Geralt’s back in jest. “Although now that you mention it, they did also teach me to - _ Oof.” _

Geralt interrupts whatever Jaskier is about to say by going limp, dropping his whole weight back against the bard. Jaskier folds like a cheap tent, arm reaching back to smack blindly at the offending witcher. Hearing Ciri’s peals of laughter beside them, Geralt lets his head loll to the side and gives her a wink, sending her further into a fit.

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier wheezes, half because he’s squished and half because he’s laughing “You made your point you great sack of bricks, now  _ get off me.  _ I need my lungs and soon I won’t be able to peel them off my ribs I fear.” Ever so slowly Geralt eases up, allowing Jaskier to push them back into a sitting position. “They taught me many useful skills, is what I’ll leave it at.” He breathes out, straightening his doublet before picking up his needlework again. “And I was privy to everything that ever went on in my father’s house. Learned of my sister’s engagement two weeks before she did. Gave her plenty of time to run away from it the poor thing.”

“Was he a cruel man?” Ciri asked, eyes wide. 

“Nah, just boring and ugly. You can be one or the other but you can’t be both.”

“Unless you’re rich.” Geralt throws over his shoulder.

Jaskier shakes his head. “He certainly didn’t have enough coin to make up for the size of the boil on his nose.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, silence being relative given that Jaskier can’t go more than twenty seconds without muttering to himself or singing bits of song under his breath. Geralt resumes the maintenance on his sword, half-paying attention to the pair at his back when Ciri pipes up. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I have two sisters,” Jaskier replies, the words getting muffled around the thread he’s holding pressed between his lips. “And a brother, thank the gods.” He ties the final knot in his handiwork.

“You’re thankful you have a brother?”

“We should all be thankful for our brothers.”

Ciri’s face scrunches up in bewilderment. “Why?”

The bard tilts his face up to the sun, resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “Because without him I’d have to inherit my father’s title of viscount, which sounds about as much fun as listening to Valdo Marx recite sonnets if you ask me.”

“You don’t want to be a Viscount?”

“Can you picture me pouring over tax reports and proceeding over the local court? I’d fall asleep before I could pass a single ruling, my hand to Meletie’s bosom.”

Ciri nods in solidarity, “Court is very boring. So your father just let you leave?”

Pausing its work, Geralt’s hand brushes lightly over Jaskier’s, where it’s resting on the rock they’re sitting on. In response, Jaskier presses a little closer to the Witcher’s back. “Let’s just say he’s even more grateful for my brother than I am. There was little sorrow in that parting.” Jaskier shiver’s a bit as if finally feeling the afternoon’s chill as his words hang in the air. “But that was many years ago.” He says, voice brightening. “And now I’m free to sing my way across the continent and have grand adventures with the likes of you two.” He shakes out Ciri’s cloak before handing it to her. “Here, enough of that old nonsense. Put this back on, you must be cold.”

She takes the cloak from him and buckles it around her neck. She stands and spins, flaring out the cape and showing off the new florals along the edge. Jaskier applauds her and she takes a little bow. For a moment the conversation seems to be forgotten as they laugh, but then Ciri kneels back down and wraps her arms around Jaskier’s frame. “I’m very glad you have a brother,” she says into the cap of his puffy sleeve. 

At their backs comes a low rumbled, “Me too,” The hand over his tightens its grip, and Jaskier doesn’t so much feel his heart swell so much as his entire chest, the warmth spreading up and into his cheeks. He’s so busy trying to figure out how to stay tucked into this moment forever that he misses the hiss of a portal opening in front of him.

  
  



End file.
